"'Tis a foine va-acation ye're havin' playin' nurse fer a pinched toe, an' me tearin' out th' bone fer to git out th' logs on salt-horse an' dough-gods 't w'd sink a battle-ship. 'Tis a lucky divil ye ar-re altogither," railed Fallon good-naturedly as he returned from supper and found Bill engaged in the task of swashing arnica on his bruised foot. "Oh, I don't know. I'll be back in the game to-morrow." "To-morry!" exclaimed Irish, eying the swollen and discolored member with a grin. "Yis; ut'll be to-morry, all right. But 'tis a shame to waste so much toime. Av ye c'd git th' boss to put ye on noight shift icin' th' skidways, ye wudn't have to wait so long." "It's a fact, Irish," laughed Bill. "I go on at 4 A.M. to-morrow." "Fure A.M., is ut? An' phwat'll ye be doin'? Peelin' praties fer that dommed pisener in th' kitchen. Ye've only been laid up t'ree days an' talk av goin' to wor-rk. Man! Av Oi was lucky enough to git squose loike that, Oi'd make ut lasht a month av Oi had to pour ink on me foot to kape up th' color." "I'm going to Hilarity for a cook," insisted Bill. "Moncrossen says there is a real one down there--Daddy Dunnigan, he called him." "Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money in th' bank, an' her majesty's--Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky--phwat more c'd a man want?" "The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him." "Ye shud av towld um to go to hell! Wor-rkin' a man wid a foot loike that is croolty to animals; av ye was a harse he'd be arrested." "He didn't tell me to go. He is crowded for men; the grub is rotten; something has to be done; and he asked me if I thought I could make it." Irish pulled thoughtfully at his pipe, and slowly his brows drew together in a frown. "He said ye c'd make ut in two days?" he inquired. "Yes. The tote-road is well broken, and forty miles traveling light with that rangy team is not such an awful pull." "An' he towld ye phwere to camp. It'll be Melton's awld No. 8, where ye camped comin' in?" "Yes." Fallon nodded thoughtfully, and Bill wondered what was passing in his mind. For a long time he was silent, and the injured man responded to the hearty greetings and inquiries of the men returning from the grub-shack. When these later had disposed themselves for the evening, the Irishman hunched his chair closer to the bunk upon which Bill was sitting. "At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground." "I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch." "A crutch, is ut? A crutch! Well, a man ud play hell makin' foorty moiles on a crutch in th' winter--no mather how good th' thrail was broke."